NNYx2
by Boom Dead
Summary: Takes place directly after JTHM. Before, the divine only talked about waste locks. Suppose there's more to the destroying of humanity's excretion than just that? The title has nothing to do with the story.
1. Prologue

A.N.: The prologue has nothing to do with Johnny C.

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|Prologue|

"_Andy? Andy!" _

Thick, dark grey smoke billowed through the corridors. Every wall, every ceiling, every cloud of smog was filled with flecks of ash and burning embers. Already, half of the house was consumed by the smoke and fire. It lapped at the walls, peeling wallpaper, burning through paint.

"_Where… where are you, Andy?!"_

The room was choked with smoke, and the heat was so intense, it began to turn the doorknob red-hot. Somewhere in the house, frantic footfalls rushed up the stairs. In the back of the room, by the bed, fire crept up from the other side. The bed caught aflame, and a lone teddy bear began to blacken, plastic eyes and nose melting.

"_Sis! I'm coming, I swear, I'm almost there!"_

"_Get me out of here! I don't wanna die, Andy!"_

The grey smoke turned an extremely dark black. It was greasy, oily, and a sweet smell began to fill the room. As, as if something in the house was being cooked. Or burned.

"_I, I can't… I can't breathe, Andy…"_

"_Shit! The doorknob is too hot! Hold on, sis, I'll try to kick the door open! Get back!"_

The door absorbed the shock of the kick. Another kick. It absorbed it again. Yet, as the incessant pounding on the door went on, and the fire began to lick at the wood, it started to give. It weakened, and splintered, and suddenly burst open. Somewhere, part of the house collapsed. The black, oily smoke doubled in intensity, almost blinding.

"_Sis, oh God… Sis, breathe! Wake up! Come on, sis!"_

The house groaned, its supports becoming weaker by the second. A grunt of effort, and then two figures, large carrying small, flew out the burning room. All around them, the house began to dismantle. The sound of a ceiling caving in echoed in the roar of the flames, and the stairs creaked, almost unable to support the weight climbing down them. Flames leapt up at the figures, singeing hair, burning skin, eating cloth. The heat was so intense; they couldn't sweat. Unbearable pain, pounding at their skulls, feet blistering on the hot floor.

A burst of fresh air, the black, greasy smoke rushing out on either side of them into the sky. Grass collapsed under blackened feet. The larger, having just enough strength, lowers the smaller to the ground. Leans in, listening in vain for breath, the fire still screaming behind them. No breath. No strength to save. To resuscitate.

The cold grass and earth came up to meet the larger's face. Embraced by the cool night air and soft ground. Too tired to move. Too tired to stay awake.

Darkness.


	2. Stains

A.N.: The fact that dividers don't translate into fanfic's document setup irks me.

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|Chapter One - Stains|

There were so many of them. Scampering about, leaking their blood all over the place. Snarling their little snarls, their constantly fresh wounds glistening in the moonlight. There were hundreds if not thousands of them, covering every inch of the ground. Crawling over rocks and grass, clinging to trees. And all of them came from one person.

She could feel her lips curling into a growl. Watching them sit on that beat up car, the moon and city lights down below making them a living shadow. A shadow that deserved to die. Her fingers clicked off the safety on her handgun.

The shadow turned, looking straight in her direction, and she faltered. Did it hear her?

"I _can_ hear you, you know." It muttered, and it leaped off the hood of the car. It was no use; they knew she was there. "I fucking _hate_ guns." The glint of a sharpened blade appeared in its hand as it made its way in her direction. "Come out of hiding; no use doing that now that you've been _idiotic_ enough to give yourself away."

She steeled herself and stepped out from cover, the bushes no longer obscuring its sight of her. The growl on her face was still plastered there, and she clung hard to her gun and the shadow came closer.

"Oh, a girl I see. Is, is that _blonde_ hair? I fucking _hate_ blondes, too." It flipped the blade in its hand, catching the handle. Taunting her. "This kill will be _fun_, don't you agree?"

Taking a deep breath, she smirked at the shadow, her finger on the trigger. "Why yes, it'll be _fantastic_."

-----------------

He lunged at her, the blade in his hand aimed at her neck. He was going to hit the jugular. A particularly fun spot to slice with a blade.

Except, she _dodged_.

He stumbled, irked, and turned around. The blast of the girl's gun rang through the air, and he grimaced as it snagged in his shoulder. She was starting to piss him off. Putting a hand to his shoulder, he growled and lunged at her again. The girl was too caught up in her pretentious feelings of self-accomplishment, and he grinned as he felt metal connect with skin. She gasped in pain and backed up, her hand now applying pressure to her waist. Oh, he had her _good_.

"Fucking _guns_. Fight me for real, you _coward_." He roared, but she only shook her head, shooting another round at him as he charged. When the bullet caught in his forearm, the same side as his wounded shoulder, he cursed her uncanny precision and the fact a bullet could stop him in his tracks. Something wasn't right about the girl. She was defending herself, instead of running. She was quick enough to avoid his attacks, and he grumbled with spite that even he couldn't be faster than a bullet. But god damnit he'd _try_. "How is this even_ fair_, bitch?!"

"People like you don't deserve fights the way you want them." She said with a flat tone, despite her waist leaking precious life-fluid.

"People like me? Do I even _know_ you?" He stumbled from blood loss. He hated being shot, too. Damn it all.

"No. And I don't know you. But I know enough that you deserve to die. All of your killing has come to an end."

He scowled and ran to her left, yet dove to his right, to fake her out. He smirked; she turned the other way, opening her left to complete annihilation. His blade swung high, eager to cut up more flesh.

And the heel of her left foot came to meet his chin.

Caught by surprise, he almost fell forward, his now bloody hand letting go of his arm and rubbing at his jaw. Pissed off and getting the feeling this fight was too familiar, he turned to see her aiming at him with that damned pistol. It suddenly hit him that the whore had the same determination to beat his ass as '_that one girlfriend he would have had but didn't_'had. Hopefully, this girl wasn't as good enough to leave him hypothetically bloody and covered with glass like what happened before.

Another blast from the gun rang out, and he was happy enough to realize it missed him as he rushed her again. Though, the bullets in his arm hurt. A lot. And he found himself stumbling past her as she dodged. He turned around again. He felt like one of those bulls in Spain. With the pompous jerks that waved flags in their faces. Every time he lunged, he missed his target. It was pissing him off. But then the pain from the bullets would distract him from his pissed-off-ness. He _really_ hated guns.

"You look a bit weak, gonna give up yet?" The blonde taunted, and he snarled. _Nobody_ taunted him without getting their heads sliced off. And that's where his blade was aiming, until she dodged _yet again_ and clocked him hard in the back of the head with the butt of the handgun. In fact, she hit him so hard he fell to the ground. He struggled to a stand, realizing blood loss was really eating on his ability to stay conscious.

"_Who the fuck are you_!" He felt faint. No, no, he can't faint; he never faints. The only time he faded to black was when… when that bullet took off half his face. He couldn't faint, not now. This girl had that damned pistol aimed at his head. He had no idea if he was still… that _thing_ he had been before. If she killed him… well wait, who did _he_ give a fuck if he died again or not? This whore deserved it if it all broke loose again. Yeah, that's it, she'll be torn up into beautiful little red giblets, and he'd get a free ticket back to the mortal life. Maybe he'd finally get that damned coat-

-----------------

She stood over the person's body, her gun held lazily in one hand. It was hard to see any features on them, since the darkness was very thick out in the hills above the city. The demons all scowled at her when they realized their host had fallen, and melded into his body. Yet he wasn't dead. She could barely see his stomach rising and falling in the moonlight. Fainted. Then she remembered that blood loss tended to make people faint.

Her left thigh vibrated, the vibration sending a fresh shock of pain through her cut side. She sighed, reaching in her pants pocket and pulling out a cell phone. The soft blue light illuminated her face as she read the caller I.D.

"_Jenny_?"

"Yeah, hi Andy." A smile spread on her lips, and she tucked her gun in its holster on her hip. She chanced a glance down at the person. Blood hadn't pooled around him just yet; he happened to fall to the ground in the perfect position to keep the blood pooling in his bullet wounds. The blood coming from her waist was small; luckily, he hadn't cut deep enough for it to be inhibiting.

"_Did you find them_?"

She unconsciously nodded her head as she spoke, "Yeah, I got him. But he's still alive." She could hear him sigh over the phone. "Andy, this guy, I swear he has so many demons they'd fill up a quarter of a _football stadium_."

"_That… sounds intense. Look, I need you to bring him here, now that I know that_."

"Are you sure? Do you think you could handle it?" She looked back down at the unconscious person. Now the blood was starting to leak. She made sure to step away. If the blood got on her shoes, it would never come off. Her shirt was already stained; no need to get the shoes mucked up, too. "He's obviously really dangerous. You might have a bad reaction-"

"_No, I want to see him. This person must have seen a lot in his life to do what he apparently did. He's weak, and we need to keep him alive so I can talk to him. He might know something. A person like him, he's got to know _something."

She bit her bottom lip, a frown on her face. They both had no idea what they were getting into, and they both knew it. She looked down at him again. More blood. She took another step back. "Okay, I'll bring him. Keep the back door unlocked. Bye." Her thumb found the 'End' button and she disconnected the call. Flipping the phone shut, she stared down at the person as she slid the phone back in her pocket, "Well, at least he looks light…"

Of course he wasn't. She hooked her hands in his armpits and tried dragging him along the ground, ignoring the wound in her side, but she felt herself catch and stumble. Her eyes looked over his thin frame. What could have possibly made him heavier than he looked? And then she remembered that her cell phone's backlight was strong enough to potentially blind a person in pitch darkness. She took her phone out and flipped the top open, aiming it at his chest. He was wearing a trench coat. Squatting down, making sure the blood didn't get on her shoes, she flipped one side of the coat open.

Affixed to the lining were tons of knives and other implements of murder. Namely, because they were hand-made and almost all of them were coated in the dark red splotches of life-fluid. The other side of the coat was lined with knives too. And as she moved the light of the cell down to his boots, she saw more killing utensils carefully tucked away, and she realized the person even had blades in the toes and heels of his boots, activated by switches on the inside of the shoes.

With disgust and an odd sense of wonder, she removed each blade and set them aside. When she tried dragging him along the ground again, his body complied, and she almost fell back, now underestimating his lightness. She frowned in annoyance and stood up, tucking her phone away and pulling him along the dirt road. The sound of gravel being pushed aside by her shoes and his body was the only sound in the forest. If she had been younger, it would have given her the chills.

She heaved his limp body in the trunk of her car. It's not as if she liked having bloody murderers in her trunk, even though it was ironic, it's just that it was too much of a hassle to toss him in the back seat. She was proud to say she had one of the coolest cars she thought the 90's could ever produce. A pristine, dark green '98 Pontiac Firebird. A two-door beauty with legitimate leather seats. This meant, of course, she'd have to fiddle with the levers to lower the passenger seat in order to throw him in the back. And she didn't want to deal with that; too much effort. Moreover, she refused to drive home with his possibly diseased self relaxing in her passenger's seat. It just wasn't sanitary. And the leather would stain. She hated stains.

The knives, though, had been carefully wrapped up in the trench coat he had worn and set in the passenger seat. God forbid the blades be tossed haphazardly in the trunk and end up impaling the wretch. Plus, they were interesting to look at. Maybe she'd keep a couple, possibly give one to Andy as a belated birthday present. On the other hand, maybe not. She grimaced at the thought of Andy holding a custom-made killblade. There would be too much death on that blade for him to hold it and still act sane.

She started up her car and flicked on the high beams. She always drove with the high beams on. As she pulled out from her car's hiding spot off the side of the dirt road, she wondered if she should stop doing that. She decided she would go on the internet later and see if high beams were just as dangerous to the car itself as they were to drowsy cross-country drivers on mountainsides. Thank goodness nobody drove by her house. She would blind too many people.

Her eyes zoomed to her waist for a moment. The blood had hit the waistband of her jeans. She frowned. Hopefully, she would get back to the house in time to wrap herself up and bleach the hell out of the stains in her clothing. Goddamned stains.


	3. Angry Silence

A.N.: I hope I personified Johnny well. I want his crazed anger, yes, but I'm trying to focus less on the filler randomness crap and his outbursts and more on his serious side. Gotta remember, she caught him in a weak moment. If that counts for anything.

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|Chapter Two – Angry Silence|

Jenny pulled the car around the back of the house. It looked like it was pitch black inside. And even though she told Andy she'd be coming in through the back door, he hadn't been kind enough to keep the back porch light turned on. So, just like before, she would have to fumble with the unconscious mass of a person in the darkness. She would have called Andy to help her bring them in, but it's not as if he would come. He hated being outside.

She popped the trunk and was relieved that he was still out cold. He must have never brought a knife to a gunfight before. As she pulled out his limp form, she decided he must have been a more… _traditional_ serial killer. Using the now-uncommon art of stabbing people to death instead of shooting them. If she didn't hate the unpleasantries of blades being incredibly personal, she would have liked them. The ones that didn't belong to murderers. Like combat knives or pocketknives or something. She pushed the back door open and heaved him inside. She liked kitchen knives the best.

"Jenny? Is that you?" Andy's voice rang out from the darkness of the house.

"Yeah, it is. Come help me, will you?" She could hear him coming up behind her without any hindrance in the darkness. Sometimes she wondered if his pupils opened enough to black out the whites of his eyes. "Here, I'll take the legs, you take the arms." She handed the top portion of the person to Andy, and she moved back out the door to grab his legs. They worked in unison, and managed to cart the body to the living room at the front of the house. A single lamp on a coffee table lit up the immediate vicinity just enough that, when they tossed him on a wooden chair pulled from the kitchen, they could see his features clearly.

His skin was tan, a sort of olive color. He wasn't as pale as she was, and definitely not as pale as Andy. He was naturally tan though: she didn't think he went out during the day much. His skin was probably pale in comparison to people who had his tone and did wander out in the sun for extended periods of time. His hair wasn't quite black; it had a bluish hue to it. And most of it was shaved off, save for two antennae-like strands in the front that bent to hang in his face at ninety degree angles and curled at the end. He seemed to like hair gel. His body was thin and angular, but lithe enough to prove he was a successful killer. With a blade or other melee weapon. She assumed he wasn't too good at punching people, or even kicking. He didn't try once in their fight to slam his fist in her face. In a sense, it was chivalrous.

He wore a gray sleeved shirt with striped arm warmers and black leather gloves. The kind that had the fingers cut. For pants, he had on black, cut-at-the-knee, frayed jeans, striped leggings, and below-the-knee high black boots with silver buckles lining the fronts. The toes were the most interesting. They were steel, and designed to look like hooves. Like a goat's. His trench coat was still in her car. She felt curious how it would look in the light.

Andy bent close to him, looking at his wounds with a professional air, "Jenny, the rope's already here, so run upstairs and grab our first aid kit. And that sewing kit you got yesterday."

"Ok, will you be ok around this guy? I don't want-"

"I'll be fine, I promise."

She nodded, a look of worry on her face, and turned, sprinting to the entrance hall and up the stairs. Of course, Andy's room was at the very end of the hall, so she stopped by her room first. She could have easily gone to his room, then her own, but it's not like it mattered how she did it anyways.

Her door was wide open; it always was. She trotted inside and turned to her closet, pulling the door open and meeting a pile of laundry she had yet to fold and hang. Annoyed by her own procrastination, she clambered over the shirts and jeans and ran a blind hand over the top shelf, accidentally knocking over magazines and junk as she felt for the sewing kit. A littler further back…. And bingo! Her hand grabbed hold of the handle and swung the kit down.

"_Oh! Get a matchbox too, while you're at it_."

Andy's voice floated up from the living room as she ran down the hall and opened his door. For some reason, his room felt darker than the house or the woods outside. The only light source was the white glow of a laptop screen on his bed, and she stumbled over a chair and a stack of newspapers as she ran to his bathroom. She didn't have to flick the light on to find the first aid kit. It was already on the bathroom counter. She snatched it up and left his room, trying not to mess up anything else in his domain.

Jenny climbed down the stairs by twos, and alighted in the entrance hall, turning to see Andy waiting for her. Their target was already as bound as he could possibly be to the chair. The ropes covered almost every inch of him, save for his hands, wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees and feet. Of course, and his bum-arm too. Before, if they had been holding any other murderer hostage, she would have wondered if it was sane to wrap him up so tight. But for some reason, she silently agreed that he needed to be as bound as possible. She handed him the first aid kit and the sewing kit, and he sat on another wooden chair, staring hard into the bullet wounds again.

Time to operate.

-----------------

His eyes opened slowly, already sensing the heat and light of a lamp. When he came to consciousness, he was still thinking about that trench coat he had left behind. Maybe he was back in heaven. If he was, he'd ask that angel, Saint Peter, for some band aids. Those bullet wounds still stung. Goddamn guns.

His eyes focused. No, he wasn't in heaven.

"What the _fuck_ is going on? _Where_ am I?"

A female voice rang out from the darkness the lamp's light couldn't reach, "Home. Or, my home, to be precise."

It was that _bitch_, the _blonde_ one. He remembered her trying to sneak up on him with that damned gun. The muscles in his eye twitched. He couldn't see her just yet, the light was still blinding, but he knew she was there. _Mocking_ him, "Oh as soon as I stand up blood will be spilled and heads will roll god damnit!"

"Well that's going to take quite a while; those ropes are as tight as I could make them without _suffocating_ you."

A male voice, older, more mature, floated up from the darkness as well. He could hear the tone of exhaustion. Probably of seeing too much hell in the world. Not like he cared. This guy deserved to have his heart sliced out just as much as the blonde girl did.

"You people don't know who you're dealing with…" He had lowered his head to block the harsh lamp light, and his fingers groped in his sleeves for the blades he kept hidden there. A grin formed on his face; they had no idea, he'd _massacre_ them. Splash their grotesque blood all over their walls, rip their flesh from their bones. He'd break free of these damned ropes and launch himself on them like a wild, savage animal.

But, the blades weren't there.

Wait… _the fucking blades weren't there_.

"Where the _fuck_ are my knives?!" He roared, and he heard the girl stifle a giggle. The blood rushed to his face and made him hot with anger.

She took a deep breath, to put her amusement on display, and said, "I took them. Every last one. Even the ones in your boots. Those ones were the hardest to take off."

"FUCKING HELL. You goddamn _whore_! What the _fuck_ do you think you're getting yourself into?! Just because you _ruined_ my goddamned night, I'll make sure to carve your _fucking_ eyes out! And your asshole accomplice? I'll _strip_ his _skin off_ and stuff it full of _your_ organs! I'll kill you both! And when you're dead, _I'll kill you again_!" He thrashed in his chair, and he heard them both step back, the girl's audible amusement silencing. They may have had him strung up, but he was sure he could use scare tactics to keep the fuckers off him until he got free. Yet to no avail, he heard one of them come closer. And soon enough, they stepped in the light.

The man was tall, muscular yet thin. Bleached blonde with green eyes, with enough hair to have bangs and a dark blonde goatee, but somehow not pretentious-looking. Not some overworked hack obsessed with steroids. More like a… swimmer or some sort of damned tri-athlete. He hated triathlons. Somehow, without fail, the city organized all of them to pass by his house. A stampede of wrinkly old flesh bags and so-buff-they'll-kill-themselves jocks. And stick skinny women with whorish makeup slathered on their faces and incredibly obese whales believing they can handle some iron man race. The thought of triathlons alone got him hating the guy in front of him. He decided he would break in his kneecaps.

"Your threats won't help you." He said stiffly, and he heard himself snort, looking up at the man. He sat in front of him on a wooden chair, staring hard at him. His stare gave him the chills. He hated direct eye contact. "You are a merciless killer. You have the blood of thousands of people on your hands. My sister and I know what you are. I can feel it; she can see it. Normally, I would have had her let you die, as trash like you don't deserve to live." He laughed aloud. Treating the blonde bitch as if she was some skilled justice assassin. How cute. "But you're valuable to us. And I can see that now."

"Valuable to bringing you one step closer to_ hell_, you fuck." He spat, and the man sighed, an exhaustion that was reminiscent of listening to his neighbor's father berate the child. He hated those kinds of sighs.

"Valuable to help us with a problem of ours, actually." He leaned over, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping hands. "Jenny… yes, she can see the filth on you, but there's so much of it, she can't see the other parts. But I can sense it. Beneath all of that murder, there's something else. Something that proves you're different. Beneath that cold shell you have, I can feel the warmth of a person, and the sickly chills of suffering."

He wanted to laugh again, say this whole this was just some religious fuck's crazy preaching, but he stopped himself. The blonde girl could… '_see his filth_'? What did this ass mean by _seeing_ it? And _sensing_ it? What the hell was this filth he was talking about anyways? The only thing he could come up with in comparison was the king of Hell himself saying people left behind an invisible sludge… No, these kooks couldn't be talking about that. The chances they knew were ridiculous. Absolutely fucking _ridiculous_.

"However, you're obviously not going to cooperate. Even though I patched you up," the man held up two small bloody metal bits. Bullets. He chanced a glance at his right arm, and saw the blood had been wiped away and the holes had been stitched closed. For some reason, this made him angry. "Fortunately, Jenny had been kind enough to be quick to get you in my care. You did lose a good amount of blood, but I'm positive you'll recover. I can tell you've handled worse."

"_Fuck_ you and _fuck_ that whore." He whipped back, and the man only smiled. Again. He hated smiles like that. That I'm-more-mature-than-you-are, smug look. As soon as he'd get a hand on his blades, he'd slice his lips off. "I don't cooperate with _assholes_."

A snort of amusement arose from the darkness. The blonde bitch. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black, mister." She stepped in the light, and he grimaced; not only did the man have that bleached, orange-ish blonde look, but the girl did as well. Bleach killed hair. They were idiots for doing so. "We know you're antisocial and quite whirled up from all of this. So, we are going to sleep, and you're welcome to sleep too. In that chair." The man stood up and the siblings simply turned away, stepping back in the darkness of the house. Except, he saw the girl's heel stop right before it was engulfed in blackness. "Would you like me to turn off the light?"

He growled to himself, grinding his teeth and staring hard at that heel, hoping it would spontaneously combust, "No. I don't sleep."

"How about I move it out of your precious face, then?" She teased, and he now hoped the heel would begin to melt off her bones.

"No. I'll _keep_ this light in my fucking eyes, bitch."

"Ah, I see. I like your sarcasm. But we both know you'd prefer I stay as far away from you as possible." The heel began to move again, and now he was only staring at the hardwood flooring where it had once been. "Have a good night sitting there with that lamp in your eyes. Sounds like lots of _fun_."

He could hear her walk off and up creaking stairs. A distant door shut; he could tell it was slammed closed. After that, silence.

Complete silence.

Painstaking silence.

Angry silence.

Lonely silence.

… Fucking blonde bitch and her goddamn guns.


End file.
